


Honor-bound

by glacis



Category: Highlander: The Series, Relic Hunter
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:44:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hunt for a family heirloom stirs up old memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honor-bound

Honor-bound, a Highlander / Relic Hunter crossover. The pub, dating from the fifteenth century, still exists, but the name has been changed to protect the guilty.

 

_Glenfinnan, Scotland, on the shores of Loch Shiel, 1995_

_Conal stared down at the hole in the ground, hating the shudders that wracked his sturdy back_. Grave-robbing was horrible business, but bloody good money, and he'd put up with the bugger standing over his shoulder if it would pay him enough to get him gone. A low shout from Kevin took the robed priest away to another part of the graveyard as his shovel lodged up against something solid with a muffled thud. He looked around.

The only thing watching was a beady-eyed raven. He chucked a stone at it and it flew away, squawking. The priest stiffened, but only glared at him over his shoulder before returning his attention to Kevin's find. Just as well. He should get something out of this, himself. No reason why the good Father should get all the pickings.

He heaved at the lid of the coffin, wrinkling his nose at the dusty smell as it yielded. Digging quickly through the detritus of death, his fingers wrapped around the haft of an axe. His hand burned, and he quickly dropped it back beside the skeleton. Footsteps behind him urged him to hurry, and his hand closed round a brooch holding the rotting remnants of a plaid to a rag that had been a thin cotton shirt. It came away easily in his hand, and he drew back from the box, letting the lid slide back into place.

"Conal," the priest said from behind him. "Anything?"

"No," he lied.

"Then come help Kevin. Two will dig faster than one."

Conal grinned to himself. So they would. And this one already had his night's wages from his work.

Three hours later, the immortal known as Kanwulf stared down at the hanging haunch of meat that had been in life the body of his hired laborer. Kevin's blood had made a good sacrifice to Odin. He felt close, closer than he had in almost four hundred years. As he lifted Conal's body and dumped it into the grave the men had pillaged, a small item fell from the corpse's pocket, landing in the dirt with a metallic clink. Kanwulf tossed the body into the hole and leaned forward to pick the object up.

A brooch. Something a chieftain would wear. He peered over his shoulder at the spot in the shadows where Conal had been digging, then shrugged. If the man had found anything further of value, and the axe most certainly was that, he'd've tried to take it as well._ Kanwulf sighed. The trinket would fund further explorations. He would find his axe. Odin willing._

 

The adobe house was quiet. It was one of the reasons Duncan had been drawn to it. No one around for miles, his own version of an early warning system in place should an Immortal come into his territory, and not many mortals to worry about, either. Joe called it his hidey-hole. Methos called it his kiva. Amanda refused to set foot in it. Something about a bad experience with an Anasazi lover several centuries ago had left her prejudiced against that region of the desert. For himself, it was a retreat. The nearest town was Kaibito, the nearest city was Page, his love of water was appeased by frequent trips to Lake Powell, and the locals thought he was a hermit, so they left him alone.

Which was precisely what he wanted.

He flicked on his computer, glancing through the day's headlines before cranking up his email. While he was taking a vacation from the world, it didn't do to become complacent, and keeping track of daily happenings was a deeply engrained habit. Blowing on his coffee, scrolling down through the news items, his hand suddenly stalled on the mouse.

It couldn't be. It wasn't possible. Kanwulf's grave-robbers couldn't have taken that, as well. But if they hadn't, how had it gotten to the Boston museum? And who could have stolen it from there?

His hand was moving on the mouse before the thought finished. The printer was humming and his eyes were strained by the time he was through. Three hours of research later, he knew where the brooch had been, and had a damned good idea of how it had gotten there. What he didn't know was how to get it back from whomever had taken it. All he knew was that it had to be done.

That brooch didn't belong in a museum, any more than Debra's bracelet had belonged in a art dealer's room in New York. It belonged with the man who had worn it with honor, four hundred years before. It belonged in Scotland : it belonged with his father.

Attempting to track down Methos was useless, but Joe was happy to do some looking for him. Not that he came up with much. "There's no sign from any of the Watchers in the field that an Immortal did it, Mac. Looks like your garden variety jewel thief. You know," his Watcher continued, "you do know somebody a whole helluva lot better suited to answer questions like this than I am."

He sighed. "Yeah, she was next on the list. Thanks, Joe."

"Any time." There was a click, and he hung up the telephone, staring down at it. Then, grinning slightly at nothing in particular, he picked it up again and rang a number from memory.

She picked up on the second ring.

"Yes?" Giving nothing away, in that bright way she had.

"Amanda, I need your help." His mouth was running on auto-pilot as his eyes stared at the picture of his father's brooch. "Someone's stolen something and I need to get it back."

"Hello, Duncan," she answered, exaggerated sweetness underscoring the sarcasm. "Long time no hear. I'm wonderful, how are you? You know, usually I spend my time taking things, not getting them back." She paused for breath and he swallowed.

"'tis important." He waited, and she caved in as quickly as he'd hoped. She really was a good friend.

"I'm not the best person for the job, Mac." He started to interrupt and she shushed him. "But I know someone who might be able to help. What is this 'something'?"

"It's a brooch. My father wore it." The day I died. The last thought he kept to himself.

"Why don't you call Rachel? Surely she's got contacts up in the back of beyond that can help you."

He grinned a little at the hint of jealousy he heard, then shook his head. "Wouldna do any good, Amanda. 'Twasn't stolen from home."

"Then where was it?" she asked suspiciously.

"It was on display at the Celtic exhibit in Boston." He waited for the inevitable reaction.

"How much was it worth?"

"I don't know on the open market," he explained wearily. "but altogether nearly ninety thousand dollars worth of jewels were taken. I'm only interested in the brooch. From what I can gather, it was added to the inventory two years ago. I did some digging, and while the museum curator doesn't appear to've done anything wrong, the provenance trail dries up a few owners before the museum obtained it. It came into the USA through New York, though, and I'd be willing to bet it came from Kanwulf's bloody grave-robbers. It's the right time, and the right trail ... and that's where Debra's bracelet came from."

He could hear her take a deep breath on the other end of the line. He hadn't given her much detail about his trip to Scotland a few years before, but she'd known it had gotten to him, and he _had_ told her a little. Enough that she knew just what it meant to him to return this relic of his past to the place where it belonged.

"Okay, I'll give you a name. But you can't let her know that you're not returning the brooch to the museum. Sydney gets a little funny about things like that. If she finds out you want to bury it in the ground, you're going to have a hard time getting it away from her."

"Sydney?" he asked.

"Yeah, we've, uhm, crossed paths before. She's not one of us, but she's smart, and tough. She's a relic hunter, the best I've ever seen. I'll give you her number. Tell her what it is you're looking for, and if anyone can find it, Sydney can. But for God's sake don't tell her I sent you to her."

"Not a friend?" he asked, smiling for the first time since seeing his father's brooch on the screen.

"Not ... exactly." There was mischief in her voice. Duncan's smile widened to a grin and he determined to get to the bottom of Amanda's reticence. As soon as he got the brooch back. She rattled off a number and he wrote it down.

"Thanks, Amanda," he said softly.

"Any time, stranger," she needled him gently. He waited for the dial tone, then hung up the telephone.

He stared into the distance for a long moment, planning out the best way to approach an ancient history professor who was an unlikely adversary for his Amanda, then picked up the 'phone again. Two hours later he was on an airplane to the East Coast.

Once settled in his seat, unable to concentrate on anything else, he gave up his useless attempt at damping down the memory of the last time he'd seen his father's brooch. The ugly pattern of the fabric on the back of the seat in front of him swam before his vision, and re-formed into a sea of tartan.

 

_Glenfinnan, 1622_

_Duncan ducked beneath the swing of a sword, rolling out of the way of the down-stroke barely in time to escape being trampled by the hooves of the raider's horse. _Swearing to himself at the waste of horseflesh, he did the only thing he could do to keep from being skewered on the blade as he found daylight at the other end of the roll. He plunged his dirk upward through the strap of the saddle, into the belly of the horse, diving away from the rush of blood, curling away from hooves, slicing the horseman along the chest as his dying mount thrashed to the ground.

Fierce green eyes stared up at him for a moment before glazing over. His own vision wavered. Wallace Campbell had been a friend, a lifetime ago, when they were youths together. Now he was an enemy. A dead enemy. A scream of warning from behind him caused his body to react instinctively, and he scuttled to the side as an axe came down where he had been crouched over Wallace's body. It split the dead man's face in two. MacLeod screamed with rage and brought his sword around in a two-handed swing that gutted his attacker. Not having the breath or the attention for any further memories, he blanked his mind as best he could and re-entered the fray.

The raid came from nowhere, in the middle of a misty autumn day. The Campbells, angry with the death of their daughter, raged at murder where the priest decreed suicide and the MacLeod heir claimed accident. Swords flashed through the mist, cries echoed off the trees and were swallowed by the thick air. Duncan MacLeod fought with the heart of a lion and the madness of a true Highlander as the attack pressed near, concentrating on him. This wasn't about sheep, or cattle, or silver. This was about vengeance.

Not for the first time in the past four years, Duncan missed the presence of his cousin Robert at his back. Together they'd been unbeatable, in life, inseparable. Then Debra Campbell's father had promised her hand where her heart was not given, and Robert had sacrificed his life to Duncan's blade in the name of honor. The clans had fallen out over her death, days later, and rank hostility had lain between them since.

He could hear the battle cries of his kinsmen, his father's cutting through them all, and he fought to make his way toward their strength. There were too many Campbells pinning him in, and he couldn't see past the field of plaid and fur surrounding him. His own cry sounded as he threw every ounce of strength he had into the battle, butting one man with his head, swinging behind with his dirk to stab another, bringing his sword arm up across a third.

The fourth moved too quickly. He felt the bite of steel in his side, and struggled to untangle his dirk from the dead man pinned on it. His fingers refused to do as he bade, and he tried to curse, drawing in a gasping breath. Breathing fire. Breathing blood.

There was blood on his lips, but he knew he hadn't bitten them. The air felt strange, liquid, as if he was standing to his shoulders in the loch, and his sword arm gradually fell, so slowly, as if everything in the world had fallen back a pace. Blue plaid converged on the green and red, and he looked up into his father's eyes, wondering when the man had grown so tall again. Was he a boy again, then? He tried to say his father's name, but only a soft gurgling sound came out. His hand was wet.

He looked down and saw the bright crimson flooding his fingers, but his mind couldn't connect it with the gash in his side or the pain in his chest. The world shifted again, still in that strange slow motion, and he was moving. His eyes never left his father's face.

Off the field of battle, into a hut, smoke and an old woman chanting. His fingers were wrapped in his father's shirt, and Duncan tried to tell him that this wasn't right, there should be more to it than this, for hadn't the Witch promised him so? But his tongue wouldn't cooperate, and he couldn't hear his father's voice. Couldn't see his eyes any longer. His head fell back against the bedding, and his gaze was caught by the flash of silver and amber at his father's shoulder. The warrior's brooch. The symbol of his father's strength and pride. Holding him, warming him. _The tiny spark of silver remained even as the world faded to nothing._

 

Sydney Fox stared down at the dull sheen of the ivory earring nestled in her palm. Dating from the reign of Asoka over the Mauryan empire, almost twenty three hundred years old, it spoke to her of peace following carnage. Of radical ideas of governance based on morality and compassion, of the teachings of Buddha and the practicality of maintaining the first crown over almost all of India. Of hospitals and roads, law and learning, the flowering of art and technology. Of course, women were looked on much the same as prized oxen, but that hadn't changed much in many places in the world, over two millennia later. The more things changed, the more they remained the same. The empire hadn't lasted all that long, in the grand scheme of things, but at least he'd tried.

A throat cleared at her door, and she looked up to see the department secretary standing there as if she'd been poleaxed. Her eyes were shining, her hands were fluttering, even her bright blonde curls were bouncing. Syd raised an eyebrow at her and looked past her, since Claudia, for all her gaping mouth, couldn't seem to force a word out. Syd's eyes widened.

No wonder. He was a babe.

There was a man standing behind Claudia, not very tall, but broad and extremely well-built. He moved with the grace of a dancer, or an assassin. Long, muscular legs in black jeans, broad chest outlined by a white sweater, and a long black duster sweeping around him all added to the aura of dangerous competence. Dark hair, close cut, framed wide dark eyes with ridiculously long lashes. He stepped around Claudia, giving her a smile that nearly caused her to faint, and held a strong, wide hand out in Syd's direction.

It took her a second before she could coordinate her muscles and stand. He really _was_ a babe. And that grin was lethal. She was on her feet with her hand caught in his before her brain caught up with the fact that he was speaking.

"Duncan MacLeod," he said smoothly. He had a voice like expensive whiskey, soothing and deep, with the faintest hint of the Highlands in it. She swallowed.

"Hi," she blurted, then winced. "Sydney Fox. How can I help you?" It took her another second to realize he wasn't clasping her hand anymore, and was in fact waiting for her to let go. She did, with a slight blush, thankful once again for her tanned complexion that camouflaged most flushes. She hated making an ass of herself. Either he didn't notice, or he was too much of a gentleman to make an issue of it. She had a feeling it was the latter.

She waved vaguely at a chair, and he took it as the invitation she'd meant to issue. She glared at Claudia, and shooed her away. Supreme indignation was written in every line of her secretary's back, and Syd knew she'd hear all about it later. Much later, if she was lucky. Big brown eyes were appraising her in a surprisingly subtle manner, and he was liking what he saw, a fact that notched the heat in her face up a few degrees. Or perhaps it just seemed subtle after the attitude of the men she was used to hanging out with. Men like this guy made her tongue tie in knots. As if aware of how his regard was affecting her, the appreciation dimmed to a more professional level. She breathed again, not having realized until that moment that she'd stopped. No wonder she was light-headed.

"I was hoping you could help me find a lost relic."

"What were you looking for?" She forced her mind onto more professional subjects than just how well he filled out those black jeans.

"It's a family heirloom. A silver Celtic brooch. It disappeared five years ago. Grave robbers." His jaw clenched, and she winced in sympathy.

"Unfortunately, that happens a lot. D'you have any leads on where it might have gotten to?" She wanted to trust him, big puppy-dog eyes and all, but she'd been doing this for a long time. Paranoia came naturally.

"All I've got is this." He handed her a folded piece of newsprint.

Flattening it out on the desk, she whistled under her breath. It was a report of a Celtic jewelry collection, stolen from a small museum in Boston. "The Stokes robbery. I remember reading about it."

"Reading about what?" a light tenor voice asked from the doorway. Syd glanced over at her right hand man, and nodded at their visitor.

"A brooch, stolen along with some other jewelry from the Stokes Museum. Mr. MacLeod's looking for it. This is my teaching assistant, Nigel Bailey."

She glanced between the men, but MacLeod was staring at Nigel as the young man came further into the room and perched on a chair beside the desk. Seeing a poleaxed look similar to the one Claudia'd worn plastered across the swarthy features, she mentally shrugged. Made sense, of course. That age, that pretty, no wedding ring, bound to be gay. She sighed. At least she'd be able to talk to him now, not worry about what he might be thinking of her. There was something a little liberating about gay men. She refused to consider that idea past the surface and concentrated on bringing Nigel up to speed.

Automatically slipping into lecturer mode, she said, "The brooch in question is a ring or annular brooch. They were worn in Scotland from about the second century BC and still in use up to the eighteenth century. They're formed as a ring of metal with a central pin, crossing from one side of the circle to the other." She sketched the pattern in the air. MacLeod still had that felled-ox look, so she kept explaining.

"This brooch is called a plaid brooch, used to keep the large rectangle of tartan material pinned to the shirt at the shoulder. The pin passed through the fabric then rested on the opposite side of the circle. Sixteenth century examples, like the missing brooch, were often set with crystals or river pearls. In this case, the entire center of the brooch is filled with a single amber-colored citrine, or cairngorm. The ring itself is worked silver, with finely engraved knot work around the stone."

Nigel was nodding, and glancing over at MacLeod, who finally rejoined the party. This time, he was the one doing the blushing. Syd grinned, but declined to explain the reason for her expression to Nigel, who was, not unnaturally, looking rather confused.

Not that _that_ was anything new, either. She liked to think that their relic hunts were more than just a way to bring history alive and restore the relics to their rightful places. They were a way to infect young historians with a real passion for the past, too. Nigel was coming along well. She had high hopes for him.

"You claim this is a family heirloom?"

He nodded.

"I hope you have the documents to prove it. There'll be a provenance fight," she had to warn him.

MacLeod finally ripped his eyes away from Nigel and looked vaguely back at her. She smiled encouragingly. He blinked, then shook his head and swallowed before speaking.

"I'm an antiques dealer, Professor Fox," he said quietly. "For many years, I lived with an artist who ran her own gallery. It belongs to my family. I know what I'm up against, and I'm more than ready to face it. But first we have to find it."

She nodded. It sounded like fun. "We'll see what we can do for you, Mr. MacLeod."

"I'll go with you." The words sounded more like pronouncement of judgement than a suggestion, and she stared hard at him. He looked stunningly rock-like in his determination. She shrugged.

"Your call. Just stay out of the way, and do what I tell you to when I say so, and we'll get along fine." They could always ditch him if they had to. He smiled at her.

She forgot what else she had to say, and had little memory of the rest of the meeting. The man had that effect on people. Sex on two feet. He gave Nigel a very intense look on the way out the door and she sighed.

A girl could dream.

 

"Reading about what?"

A light tenor voice interrupted the professor, and she smiled past MacLeod at the doorway. Mac turned, and the world stood still.

"A brooch, stolen along with some other jewelry from the Stokes Museum. Mr. MacLeod's looking for it. This is my teaching assistant, Nigel Bailey."

Holy Mary, Mother of God. Not only was he a dead ringer, he was a Bailey.

Of course he was.

The light caught in the warm brown of his hair. Vision wavered, and time slipped away.

_The King's Head, six miles outside Cambridge Town, 1743_

_He didn't get down to England very often, not this far south, anyway_. Happily they didn't have to go all the way into London. Jamie'd had to go back to University for something, he hadn't paid much attention to the details of academia, and the Laird had 'hired' him to accompany his son.

Not that it had been a hardship. MacLeod would have followed without the pay. No matter the fact that the family had come from Lothian before he was born; they were Highlanders now, and even if they weren't Catholics, it wasn't a good time to be a Highlander in England.

If it ever was.

He'd urged caution. Jamie'd humored him. They left the immediate environs of the university town, and headed along the road a fair bit. When the lights in the pub windows were seen, they both breathed a sigh of relief.

"Is this far enough for ye, or would you rather we rode straight to the border?" Jamie's light tenor voice teased at his ear, the laughter in it setting his nerves a-twitch and aggravating the slow-burning arousal that had been kindling all day. He mock-growled at the boy, and bright eyes laughed back at him.

"This'll do us, I s'pose," he gave in grudgingly. Jamie was off his horse first, and MacLeod knew he hadn't imagined the light touch along the seat of his trousers as he swung off his own mount. "You wait," he breathed, just loudly enough for Jamie to hear. "You'll get yours!"

"Promises!" Jamie teased him back.

Nothing more was said as the stable boy ran out to greet them. Their eyes met several times as they arranged for their horses to be cared for and entered the pub, hungry and eager to sample the hospitality. Jamie stopped dead just over the threshold and MacLeod nearly bowled him over running into him from behind.

"Oh, my God," Jamie whispered. He sounded strangled, and MacLeod looked over his shoulder to see the boy's face completely alight with laughter. There were times when he looked closer to twelve than five and twenty; this was one of them. MacLeod looked from that merry face to the nearly deserted interior of the pub and peered about, confused.

"What?" he grumped. Jamie chuckled.

"The tables, man, the tables."

MacLeod took another look. The tables were suspended from heavy chains hooked into the ceiling. Not common, but not unheard of; from the look of it, they'd been there for some time. Sturdy, flat wooden tables swayed gently above benches, candles burning low in the rings of glass bulbs between the hooks from which the tables were suspended.

"Wha' about 'em?" He didn't like feeling slow, but there was something important here he was missing. Jamie shot him a fulminating glance over his shoulder that went like a bolt straight to MacLeod's crotch.

"Possibilities." Then he stalked over to the bar and began to speak to the pub keeper.

MacLeod watched the neat little arse marching away from him with appreciation, then glanced at the tables again. He wasn't making the connection. He caught up with Jamie and, waiting until the pub keeper was out of earshot, asked, "What possibilities, lad?"

In answer, Jamie stretched. With his hands over his head. Crossed at the wrist. His head thrown back, arching his neck. He froze that way for an instant, then relaxed into his normal posture. MacLeod couldn't've moved to save his soul.

"I like candle wax," Jamie told him very, very quietly, then grinned at him like the devil incarnate. MacLeod swallowed.

"Aye," he managed. "Can we not wait 'til we're back at Doch Four?" Jamie didn't answer. He'd no need. MacLeod knew it would be 'of course not, are ye daft?' There were times when he was sure he was. This looked to be one of them.

Later that night, when the fire was damped down and everyone had gone home or gone upstairs to sleep, he gathered up his tormentor, four long strips of linen that had originally been a sheet, and a soft woven stocking. They were smothering laughter and sneaking kisses all the way across the darkened room, taking care to choose a table far from the door, hidden from the window, secluded as they could be and still be in the middle of a pub in the middle of the night.

"'Tis insane, Jamie," he protested even as he was stripping the lad of his breeches and shirt, knotting the linen around his wrists and ankles, kissing him all the way supine on the table top. The chains were as sturdy as they looked, thank God.

"'Tis wondrous, Duncan," Jamie informed him, arching against the restraints in much the same manner he'd stretched hours before. The expanse of creamy skin dusted with dark hair called to him, and he nuzzled across the broad chest, seeking out and teasing a pink nipple. "Please, God, yes, Duncan," Jamie begged.

"What d'ye want?" he managed to ask.

"Ye ken fine what I want," Jamie hissed. "You! Now!"

"'S nivver a bad that couldna be waur," he mumbled as he finally got Jamie's breeches off. As he climbed atop the table beside the lad, the chains rocked, and the wax from a cup, still hot from the flame so shortly extinguished, slopped over the edge of the globe. It landed a bare inch from Jamie's erection, and MacLeod stifled the ensuing cry with his mouth.

"More," Jamie begged hoarsely when his lips were free again. MacLeod groaned under his breath.

"Y're goin' to be the death of us, lad," he whispered as he raised his stubby candle over their entwined bodies, then very carefully tilted it.

The first drops landed on Jamie's nipple, raising a welt, and MacLeod kissed away that cry as well. The next ran further down his torso, and it took a heavy thigh clamped over both knees to keep Jamie in place, even with his wrists and ankles tied down. All the while, his hands twisted in their bonds, and his erection grew firmer. Another stream traced over his prick, and MacLeod held his hand steady, drawing out the sizzling wax until a thin line had hardened from Jamie's foreskin to his balls. Those cries, Jamie himself muffled against MacLeod's hip.

MacLeod painted the reddened flesh with yellow wax, his own heat rising at Jamie's obvious enjoyment of the slow torment. "Ye're a strange one, Jamie-lad," he growled, finally setting the candle aside to follow the trail of wax with his tongue.

"Ye'd have me no other way, Duncan," Jamie rasped out. Then he moaned behind clenched teeth as MacLeod sucked his balls into his mouth, rolling them from side to side, breaking the wax, the cooled lacery pulling at the delicate skin as they flaked away.

Hearing the helpless cry, MacLeod raised his head from his work and took the time out to fasten the stocking firmly in place between Jamie's teeth, stealing a kiss before knotting the fabric. Then he returned to the torment, licking, biting and sucking his Jamie from stem to stern. By the time he unfastened his own breeches and parted Jamie's thighs, it was very late, and he could feel time running out.

Rising above Jamie's splayed body, firm thighs pressing down atop his, pulled tight by the binding at his ankles, he clenched his fingers around Jamie's arse-cheeks and plunged in. He was thankful for the improvised gag as Jamie's scream was completely muffled.

"Dinna hurt ye, did I, lad?" he gasped out, holding himself still with supreme self-control. Jamie glared at him, then shifted his arse demandingly. Taking his cue, MacLeod thrust furiously, one hand leaving his grip on the slim hips to take the raging prick in his hand and pump it in time to his movements. The table swayed with them, taking him deeper with each stroke, slamming them closer together each time them shifted. The chains creaked but the hooks held.

The candle burned down to its end; the light gave out just as he felt Jamie convulse around him. He pushed in as far as he could and held his place as Jamie came, concentrating on his hand moving over Jamie's prick and the squeeze of the lad's arse around his own flesh. When the storm had passed, he thrust in again, loving the relaxed sprawl of warmth beneath him, until he came to his own climax. _He lowered himself over Jamie's body, pulling the gag down and kissing him, kissing him, kissing him ..._

" -- The ring itself is worked silver, with finely engraved knot work around the stone."

Professor Fox had finished her lecture, and MacLeod dragged himself away from the past and back into the present. The boy's resemblance to Jamie was incredible. Right down to the half-teasing, half-innocent look in his eyes. He didn't pay much attention to the rest of the meeting, desperate now to escape and try to regain his composure. He told her he'd be going with them.

"Your call. Just stay out of the way, and do what I tell you to when I say so, and we'll get along fine."

He smiled at her. "Of course, Ms. Fox. You are the expert." He could always ditch her if he had to. He turned his head to smile at Nigel, unable to help himself, then walked briskly out the door. The little blonde in the mini-skirt fluttered at him, and he smiled absently her way before making a break for the stairs.

His feet were on auto-pilot, returning him to his hotel, and he could only thank the Fates later that he hadn't been challenged on the way. His mind was dawdling two hundred and fifty years in the past, and he had no time for it, not if he was going to find his father's brooch and return it home, where it belonged.

Once back in his room, he powered up his laptop and did some more digging.

 

Nigel watched the man leave, the impression of flight not supported by his calm stride. What was he running from? Or was it his over-active imagination, as usual? The silence caught his attention, and he realized that Syd had been talking and now wasn't. He cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry, what was that? I was distracted."

She grinned at him in much too knowing a manner, then gave him a concerned look. "You okay, Nigel?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Of course, just fine, Sydney, all set for another adventure. Although after our recent difficulties in Burma I did think you might wish to take time to catch your breath." She gave him a puzzled look, and the other shoulder joined the shrug. "Silly of me, I know. You live for this."

She leaned forward, all her attention on him. At one time it would have made him shy and flustered; after a year as her assistant, he knew there wasn't a hope on Earth of it being sexual, so he ignored it.

"I know it hasn't been a typical teaching fellowship, Nigel. But it's what I do, and I think you're doing very well." She looked unsure. He nodded and smiled reassuringly at her. For such a competent and confident woman, she could be surprisingly vulnerable around people for whom she cared. He counted himself fortunate to be included in that category.

"I'm learning a great deal, and I'm enjoying myself immensely, Sydney." She grinned at him, and he smiled back. "So. What's the first step?"

Most of his mind listened intently as she described the beginning of the trail. It was always exciting, the start of the hunt. Usually it was heralded by airplane tickets and rushing for the bag he now kept packed at all times, with background on the new relic being relayed to him in spurts during travel. Anything could, and usually did, happen along the way.

This wasn't their usual adventure, however. The fraction of his mind that wasn't concentrating on his mentor was cataloguing physical reactions he hadn't felt in years, and never on such short acquaintance. For all his limited life experience, he wasn't a newborn, regardless of Claudia's belief that he still needed help drying behind his ears. He'd had a good education in public schools, at which he'd been both athletic and scholarly, easy to get on with and passingly popular. Given the limited choice, he'd also been sexually active in a discreet way. He knew what his body was shouting at him even if it had been a few years since it had last taken up that particular interest.

From the look Mr. MacLeod had given him, it wasn't one-sided. He shivered. The man was handsome, yes. There was an undefined aura of power and strength about him that drew Nigel as a moth to flame. His eyes were gentle, and gave the impression of great age for a relatively young man; his body was simply magnificent.

The shiver grew into a slight tremble.

"Are you sure you're okay, Nigel?"

Damn, the concern was back. He smiled at her, a bright grin that hid the tremors of lust shaking him. He attempted to hop off her desk, turning his back to her to hide the bulge in his trousers.

He tripped over his own feet and went sprawling on the floor.

"Ow! Ow, ow, ow," he grumbled, rubbing his chin and his right knee, making use of his curled up position to coax the last of his erection to fade. Pain was good for that sort of thing. He preferred cold showers and wading through history books to hurting himself; Thapar's Asoka and the Decline of the Mauryas came to mind, it being the latest of his background readings, but pain would do in a pinch. Syd's hand on his back finally stopped his mind from skittering about like a mad dormouse.

"Uhm," she was trying very hard not to laugh, he could hear it. "I asked if you were sure you were okay?"

He gave her a mock-glare, grateful at last to feel his unruly flesh flattening down where it belonged. "Broken bones aside, simply peachy, Sydney." He pulled himself up, still rubbing his chin. "Tickets first or research?"

"Go ahead and catch up with the last of the grade sheets for the class on Buddha's legacy. They have to be in before we head out on this hunt. I'll do some digging and get us a starting point."

Her glasses were on and her computer was humming before he got to the door. He tossed an affectionate look over his shoulder at her, peering intently at the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard. Sydney Fox in full hunter mode was impressive, even before they got out of the office.

Settling in at his book-strewn, paper-infested desk, he did his best to ignore Claudia giggling on the telephone and dug for the class paperwork. Best tie up as many loose ends as possible before they were off. God only knew when he'd have the chance again. Not that he'd have it any other way.

Especially when the hunt came with side benefits. If he played his cards right, that could include one Mr. Duncan MacLeod. Ignoring, with the ease of long practice, the little voice at the back of his mind that was laughing hysterically at the odds of him actually getting up the nerve to even approach the man, much less ask him for a date, he plopped his reading glasses on his face and began transferring marks.

Dreaming would wait. He had work to do.

 

For once, Syd was thankful for the early rising habits of some of her fellow historians. In very short order, she found the person she was looking for. Frank was an archaeologist working on-site at the Uxmal Ruins outside Campeche on the Yucatan Peninsula. Not the first place one might look when attempting to track down Celtic jewelry, but Frank was special. He wasn't just an archaeologist.

Frank was a fence.

Since Sydney's own attitude toward pot-hunters tended along the lines of ritual disembowelment and beheading, the fact that she had a fence for a friend might be considered somewhat hypocritical. As long as Frank stuck with fencing stolen goods and didn't rob the sites themselves, she was willing to keep him on her list of contacts. There were times, in her line of work, when the only reliable ears also had dirty hands.

She shook off the thought of Stewie, determined to punch the hell out of her electronic boxing dummy as soon as she had the chance, and read through his message again. It was short and to the point.

_'heard from a professional acquaintance about items in question traveling through Cozumel on the way to South American buyers. Shall I request a viewing? Love, Frank'_

She grimaced at the signature, and typed a quick positive response with a restrained note of thanks. Time was of the essence. Their best bet would be to have Frank stall the buyers until she and Nigel, oh, and MacLeod, could get there. A little persuasion, a little haggling, a little judicious butt-kicking, and the Stokes collection would be on its way home. And Mr. MacLeod would have the pleasure of sorting out ownership of his family's brooch with the curator.

She wished him luck. Her eyes unfocused for a second in wistful daydreaming, and she sighed. She wished him naked, in bed, preferably tied down, and interested in the proceedings. But she'd content herself with luck.

The way their little adventures usually went, the more luck, the better. And the _better_ the luck, the better.

"Nigel?" she called. His answer was muffled by a wall of paper. "Tickets. Three."

"Where?" He sounded resigned. He usually did.

"Me'rida," she answered. "And arrange for a rental car, preferably a Jeep, to Campeche. Oh," she added wickedly, remembering the look on their visitor's face, "and call Mr. MacLeod to let him know we have a lead."

There was an appreciable pause before he answered again. "I'm on it." This time, his voice sounded strained.

You wish, she thought, grinning silently.

 

MacLeod closed his eyes, listening to Nigel Bailey chatter over the whine of the engines. The boy was nervous, there was no doubt, although he wasn't sure why. He'd made no moves, and since they'd met at the airport, he'd done his best not to stare at the lad like he was a side of prime Aberdeen beef.

It wasn't working.

With his eyes closed, young Nigel's voice sounded uncannily like young Jamie's. Memory blurred the accent and all that lay behind was the timbre and tone. The likeness between the two was uncanny, and it extended beyond looks. They moved alike. They sounded alike.

They even flirted alike.

He opened his eyes when Nigel, probably desperate for response by this point, asked awkwardly, "You mentioned being an antiques dealer. What sort of antiques do you handle? It must be fascinating."

Bright eyes looked into his, saying something completely different than the words. Light gleamed from the unshuttered window across the aisle, slanting silver off the tip of the wing, echoing in those bright eyes, and he was caught up in memory of the last time he had seen Jamie Bailey's eyes.

_Doch Four, on the shores of Loch Ness, late October, 1745_

_"Please, Jamie."  
_  
"You'll not have me go against me family, Duncan? I cannae do it."

"Then promise me you'll not stand in the way."

Sad eyes stared back at him, dark hair falling across a pale face, framed by the white linen of the pillow casing. "I'll do what I must, Duncan, as will you."

Wishing no more to argue, Jamie pulled MacLeod down to meet his kiss._ MacLeod was gone before first light; a Hanoverian household was not the place for a Jacobite rebel to be found, no matter how the son of the house might love him._

Silver flashed again, a sliver of wing slicing through a cloud in the sky, white as smoke from a cannon's muzzle, but so much cleaner. Closing in on the aircraft. Closing in on him.

_Culloden Moor_ _, April 16, 1746_

_An hour of waiting, dodging cannon-fire and stray shells, wondering what the bloody hell was keeping them, wondering yet again why the Bonnie Prince hadn't had the sense to go back to Italy when he'd been told to, feeling with all his heart the absence of Warren Cochran at his back_. This was his fight, aye, the freedom of Scotland was his dream, but it was Warren's passion that had truly led him so far. MacLeod was a warrior; he'd seen through the long winter at Inverness just what sort of leader Charles Stuart was, and he knew, deep inside, that all the day would bring would be death, not freedom.

He heard no order, but the mid-lines broke, and to his left along the Jacobite front he heard the rumbling belch of cannon-fire. The men beside him screamed and ran forward, finally breaking loose in a wild Highland charge, the ferocity singing along his veins, carrying him into the smoke and the muck. It was rough going, battling the Moor as much as the enemy, and Cumberland's Royalist line didn't break.

A first.

MacLeod's heart sank, but his will carried him on, loyalty and love for his fellow Highlanders leading him where lack of faith in his King would have him fall. Rank after rank of red coats met their attack solidly, muskets discharging, bayonets slashing, cannons booming. He lowered his head and charged forward, meeting the enemy head-on.

The basket hilt of his broadsword burned against his knuckles as he swung left and right, using his studded targe to turn away those who would cut him in return. The spike embedded in the center of the shield did its work as well, a deadly offensive weapon mated with his defense. Gripped tightly in his left hand, his dirk angled up from below the bottom edge of the targe, catching the unwary, stabbing those who got too close.

The field was smoke and blood, the cries of the wounded and dying echoing in his ears. He saw a soldier take his bayonet to the back of a downed Highlander, a Graham from the cockade, and realized that the rumors he'd heard where true. There would be no mercy from the enemy.

Enraged by the cowardice of the act, he felt the last restraints snap from his mind, leaving him in a berserker frenzy that would've done his Norse ancestors proud. "Hold fast!" he screamed, the cry of his Clan blending with the war cries of hundreds of men, the bellows of the guns, the sobs of the dying.

Wrenching away from a bloodied plaid, the kilt of a Royalist Scot, unseeing of the death he was visiting on his countryman in the maelstrom of death they were dealing to his, he swung into a new enemy. A body impacted against his targe, the spike burying itself deep in the man's breast as the dirk followed up, thrusting clean into his heart below his ribs. MacLeod turned to face the new threat, shake the corpse from his shield, and looked into the wide, horrified eyes of Jamie Bailey.

He stopped in his tracks.

The brightness was fading from those eyes as he watched, and his mouth opened to scream again, he knew not what. Jamie's mouth moved, a whisper of sound, "Duncan."

Then fire sliced through his back, into his own chest, and the world spiraled into a haze of pain as his heart was cut by the blade of a broadsword._ He fell, bearing Jamie's body beneath his. Sound faded, sensation followed, until he was caught in a silent world with nothing but Jamie's eyes to lead him into death._

He blinked, rapidly, turning away from Nigel to hide the tears in his eyes.

"Nae much," he said softly. "It's just what's left after the people have moved on."

To his great relief, Nigel didn't press. To his unexpressed disappointment, the boy stopped talking altogether, eventually moving to the empty seat next to Sydney in the row in front of MacLeod, with the murmured excuse of asking her for further instructions. The silence left him with too much time to think.

It was a very long flight to Mexico.

 

Syd stared out her own window and listened with half an ear to Nigel trying desperately to make some headway with their moody Highlander client. It was heavy going. She almost turned and joined the conversation, if nothing else to give poor Nige a break. The wry reminder of her own inability to flirt worth a damn kept her facing forward in her seat.

Looking out over the wing, wondering what part of the States they were flying over, she checked her watch. Another hour before touch-down. She sighed. It had been awhile since she'd last been to Mexico. Staring blindly at the magazine, used paperback, flight sickness bag and other paraphernalia stuffed in the pocket on the back of the seat in front of her, she idly played with the cord on her earphones and let herself remember.

_Xalapa_ _, Mexico_ _, 1988_

_The woman simply wouldn't give up_. Syd glared at her. This shouldn't be beyond her ability to cope. She'd grown up all over the world; gotten her Ph.D. in History in less than three years at the ridiculously young age of 22; been hunting relics for over a year. No two-bit cheesy over-made-up busty excuse for a thief was going to keep her from that wreath of golden oak leaves. Phillip the Second's wreath was going back in the museum where it belonged.

Besides, if Amanda Covington got her greedy mitts on it, the idiot would probably melt it down for the gold. The woman had **no** sense of history.

She leaned against the hotel room door, closing it as silently as possible. It had to be here. This was the only place left she hadn't been able to check, and it was proof of the thief's hubris that she'd keep it close. Syd snuck over to the bed, eyes as wide as possible, ears straining to hear an alarm.

Bending over the bed, she tossed up the dust ruffle and peered around beneath the frame. Nothing. Ditto between the mattress and box springs, not that she expected much. The wreath would be flatter than a pancake under all that weight. Crawling onto the massive mattress, she shuffled through the boxes and books on the shelves in the headboard. Still, nothing. Backing off to the edge, she froze at feel of metal at her back.

Very slowly turning her head, she stared in disbelief at the rapier pointed at her spine. "A sword?" she half-hissed, half-screeched. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Might be overkill," the dark-haired, smiling woman admitted. "But, hey, use the one you know, that's my motto." The smile widened further, showing teeth. "Turn over."

Trying hard not to scrape or skewer herself on the disconcertingly steady blade now pointed at her belly button, Syd glared. "Now what are you going to do? Turn me into a shish kebab? Add murder to stealing?"

The wide eyes narrowed, considering it seriously, to all appearances. Syd gulped. Seeming to come to a conclusion, the woman said perkily, "Call me Amanda."

"Why?" Syd asked suspiciously.

The sword flicked up, and the thongs tying her leather vest together over her breasts parted like butter before a hot knife. She gulped again, harder this time. Amanda's eyes followed the movement of her ribcage rapaciously.

"I always like to be on a first-name basis with the people in my bed," she answered in a friendly fashion.

The sword flicked again, bisecting her shirt and catching her bra with it. Syd moved instinctively to cover her now naked bosom. The sword-tip waved at her fingers. She froze.

"I'm not in your bed," Syd blatantly lied.

"Looks like it to me," Amanda purred. Then she made a move that twelve years later Sydney still couldn't follow, and the sword was over the side, along with the tattered remains of Syd's shirt, vest and bra. Amanda's hands were at the zipper of her blue jeans, Amanda's hair was tickling her belly, and Amanda's mouth was suctioning the tip of her nipple practically off her breast.

Syd's mind took one look down and promptly shut off.

Events were moving much too quickly for Syd's muscles to respond, but that was okay, since her nerve endings were more than happy to take over. Several mind-bending kisses later, from her mouth down her torso to her crotch, her jeans were tangled around her boots, her hands were wrapped up in Amanda's hair, and her thighs were clamped around Amanda's skull. The woman was more than just a talented thief. She was doing things with her tongue and teeth that had to be illegal.

There were noises echoing around the room, but she wasn't really listening, even though they were coming from her own throat. She was too busy thrashing around on the bed, feeling her hair curl along with her toes as Amanda's busy tongue burrowed over her clit and deep into her, out and in, over and around, tugging and pushing and generally driving her insane. The first orgasm made her scream. The second one started a series of shock waves that just wouldn't quit.

Somewhere in all the mayhem, she'd kicked off one boot, and her jeans were hanging from the other one. Amanda had flipped position, and for the first time in her life, Sydney was eyeball-to-pubic-hair with another woman's crotch. It actually smelled pretty good.

It tasted even better.

Amanda was busy again down between her thighs, and Syd returned the favor, enthusiasm taking up the slack when inexperience threatened to paralyze her. She licked and kissed in an fumbling but hungry mirroring of what Amanda was doing to her, and felt ridiculously pleased with herself when Amanda screamed against her clit and came in her mouth. Fingers took over for tongue down below and she bucked against the hand stretching inside her, moaning and crying as she came again.

The last coherent memory she had of that night was being wrapped in surprisingly strong arms, a tongue moving over hers, hands playing in her hair. When she woke up the next morning, Amanda was gone. So were the rest of the jewels from the Macedonian collection.

_The wreath of golden oak leaves lay on the pillow beside her own, in the indentation left by Amanda's head._

A weight settling beside her brought her back to the present with a thump, and she snatched her hand away from her lap where it had been absently kneading. She stared hard at Nigel, willing him to look at her face. To her surprise, the mental command succeeded. He didn't appear to notice her fiery blush.

"Hi," he said grumpily. She smiled. It wavered, but with a little effort, it stayed.

"Not a lot of luck, huh?"

He grimaced at her. "I know when I'm not wanted."

She had to shake her head. "I dunno, Nigel. That's not the impression I got." His eyes dropped, and she reached out to pat his hand. Remembering where her hand had just been, even through layers of leather and silk, she drew it back again and cleared her throat. "He's got a lot on his mind. Talk to him later, okay? Don't give up." She had. She'd made no attempt to find Amanda. Maybe she should. Maybe there was a reason her efforts with guys left her ending up with dorks like Stewie. She shook her head to clear it. "How much do you know about Cozumel?"

Banishing memories of the past and possibilities for the future to think about another time, Sydney got down to planning a successful relic hunt.

 

A man in a white shirt and tan chinos sat down in a dusty office, casually brushing aside a six hundred year old carving. He powered up the computer and typed in a password he'd memorized weeks before, specifically in the event that the betrayal he expected would come to pass.

It had.

Scrolling through the email was time-consuming and boring, but it was to the man's advantage that the owner of the computer never deleted anything. Three pages into the past week's mail, the man leaned forward and read intently.

"Oh, Francisco, pobrecito, that was not a very smart thing to do."

He closed out the program, powered down the computer, and moved to lean against the wall in the shadows, to wait.

Half an hour later, the archaeologist in question came into the room and sat at the desk. Turned on his computer. Froze when the man placed the barrel of a gun against the base of his skull.

"Get greedy?" the man asked.

Frank began to babble, a mixture of Spanish and English, pleading for his life. The man let him run down. Finally, with ill-advised bravado, Frank sputtered, "I told you you'd pay for not cutting me in on the deal!"

The man sighed. "Somebody will pay, but it won't be me."

He pulled the trigger.

Fired a second bullet into the hard drive.

He gathered up his coat and walked out of the office without bothering to look at the reddish mess sliding down the front of the monitor.

"Estu'pido," he muttered softly.

 

Normally Nigel enjoyed research. Until he'd come to America, research had been his life. Cambridge University wasn't high on actual life experience. If it hadn't been put in print, preferably over a century ago, it simply didn't count as knowledge. An unconscious disgust for this attitude was what had sent him all the way across the Atlantic Ocean looking for something different. But he had retained his love of reading history.

Even as he was living it.

Tonight, however, was different. The air was warm and, well, quite sultry, really. Strange bird calls drifted through his window, overlaying the normal sounds of badly-driven automobiles hurtling at one another and those same poor drivers threatening to disembowel one another. The fact that they were in Spanish, a language he didn't speak well, made no difference. The tone was universal.

He flipped on the television set, then shook his head at himself and turned it off again. Overly made-up young women and men old enough to be their grandfathers in romantic clinches were not his cup of tea, regardless of the language they moaned dramatically at one another. He considered turning on the radio, then shrugged off that thought as well. His tastes ran more toward Mozart and Rossini, with the occasional guilty pleasure of Smashmouth or Cream. He strongly doubted he'd find either on the local channels.

Sighing, he stared out into the night, gazing idly at the local men who were nearly coming to blows in the street. A woman pulled herself out of one of the automobiles currently wrapped around the other at the intersection and stomped over to the battling men. She put her face between theirs and said something in a piercing tone that froze both men in their tracks. The battle quickly calmed into a relatively rational discussion, and he smiled. Women. Peacekeepers, all, no matter the language.

Then he remembered the last time he'd been tossed on his arse while Sydney calmly kicked the stuffing out of half a dozen very large, very angry Vikings, and his smile warped. Oh, well, Sydney was one of a kind.

Bored out of his skull, an unusual situation on a relic hunt, he left his room, pocketed his key, and sought out his mentor.

She was in her room. Staring at the computer. He stood in the doorway for nine minutes. Cleared his throat. Knocked. Said, timidly, "Sydney?" She never noticed, completely wrapped up in her own research. He sighed again.

Wandering down to the bar, remembering the first bar he ever went into on a relic hunt and the ignominious fate from which Sydney had rescued him, he slunk up to the polished wooden counter and stared moodily into the distance.

A body blocked his view.

His eyes slid up an immense man in a cream colored shirt with crimson piping. They widened. Before he had the chance to panic, a mellow voice beside him said, "Dos cervezas, por favor, with two shots of whiskey."

Ah! The bartender! He blinked rapidly, and looked askance at Duncan MacLeod, sitting beside him at the bar, looking much more relaxed than he had on the flight down.

"Hi," Nigel said, feeling a little overwhelmed. This close, the man was almost too beautiful.

"Hi," MacLeod replied, a teasing note in his voice.

Nigel looked at the bar. Looked at the bottles behind it. Stared at the bottle and the small glass plunked down in front of him. Glanced at the money MacLeod handed the bartender, and belatedly realized he should at least offer.

"Uhm, I, er, well, it's -- " His tongue was tied in a square knot.

"My pleasure," MacLeod answered before Nigel could tie himself into further verbal knots. "I was wondering ... d' I make ye nervous?"

His throat went dry at the hint of Scots burr in the melodious voice. "Yes," he answered truthfully before his brain caught up with his suddenly functioning mouth. "I mean, no, of course not. Why should you make me nervous? I'm not the least nervous."

MacLeod's laugh was low and sexy, rather like the purr of a very large cat. Nigel had the uncanny notion that he was being stalked.

He rather liked it.

"Calm down, lad, it's just a friendly drink. So, has Professor Fox come up with anything further that might help us on our search?"

Yes, this he could handle. Nigel took a deep breath, then nodded as casually as possible while holding his body tilted away from MacLeod so the other man couldn't see that he was fiercely aroused. It was ridiculous! He was a grown man! He shouldn't be reacting like a fifteen year old boy on his first date with a girl.

He re-ran that last thought and shook his head. None of the three applied. This couldn't even be called a date.

"Yes or no?" MacLeod sounded as if he was about to laugh. Nigel looked at him, perplexed. "First you shook your head yes, then no. Which is it, then?"

"Oh," Nigel answered intelligently. "She's still, that is, she was on the computer when I came downstairs. Still looking, I believe."

This had to stop. He was often out of his depth on these trips anyway, and could get into unbelievable amounts of trouble simply attempting to keep up with Sydney. If his mind was already in his pants before they began, he might as well stay in the hotel. Or shoot himself now. He smiled gamely at MacLeod.

"So. How do you like being an antiques dealer?" He groaned silently. MacLeod looked down at his beer, then smiled over at him.

"It's nae so bad. Meet some interesting people."

Nigel got caught in wide, deep eyes and completely lost track of the conversation. Which promptly lagged, since MacLeod wasn't the easiest of conversationalists himself. They sat there, drinking and not saying much, looking at one another then glancing away, making small talk for almost an hour. Nigel kept trying to figure out a way to ask what he really wanted to ask. He'd finally gotten up the courage to simply say, flat out, 'would you like to come up to my room?' when Sydney stalked into the bar.

Timing. His, as usual, was a beat behind the band.

"Something's wrong." She had that little worry line between her eyebrows that she only got right before something did, indeed, go spectacularly wrong. "Frank's not responding to email, and when I called his private number, it rang off the wall."

"Perhaps he's not there?" MacLeod asked reasonably.

"No," she shook her head. "This man's attached to his cell phone like green on grass. If he's breathing he'd be answering it. I'm worried."

Nigel shut his mouth, biting back the invitation and tagging along as Sydney bore him and MacLeod along in her wake. At the curb, he piled into the back seat of the Jeep and let the Scot get into the front passenger seat. This had the advantage of allowing Nigel to look at MacLeod all he wanted without MacLeod being aware of it. Or, at least, having to acknowledge it.

He was certainly worth the watching.

"Where are we going?" MacLeod asked. Sydney went into detail.

MacLeod seemed to know what she was talking about. Nigel tuned it out and slipped into a daydream, if such a dream could be called that in the late evening. When it became both explicit and embarrassing, he clamped down on his wayward thoughts and composed himself as best he could to face whatever would come at them next. On a relic hunt, one never knew.

By the time they reached the field offices of Sydney's contact, it was the very early morning hours. Nigel's jaw ached, in part from clenching his teeth against the jolts and bumps in the road, and in part from quashing down his sexual frustration. He was acutely relieved to be able to half-leap, half-fall from the Jeep at their destination. MacLeod caught him, steadying him on the rocky ground.

"Er, thanks," he mumbled, every cell in his body straining toward the Scot like iron filings lining up for a magnet. Cursing his wayward libido, he pulled himself upright, smiled sickly at the other man, and set out determinedly to follow Sydney. Except he couldn't see her. He stopped and looked round.

"Nigel!" she called impatiently. He swung about. Oh. He'd been heading out toward the ruins. He blushed, cleared his throat, carefully didn't look at MacLeod, and walked the other direction, into the offices.

Two feet into the building, MacLeod froze, his head going up like a hunting dog when it scents prey. Nigel glanced over at him, then back to where Sydney was trying office doors, looking for her friend. Not trusting himself to ask what was wrong, fearing he'd just make an arse of himself again, he headed down the side corridor and opened the first door he found.

Stopped dead in the doorway. Threw his hand up to cover his mouth. Reeled back out of the room, calling Sydney's name. Vomited on the carpet.

She was at his side in an instant. "Oh, damn," she groaned.

Nigel could sympathize, or would, as soon as he finished losing his beer, his dinner, and the pretzels from the flight. His eyes watered and his stomach lurched again. There went breakfast.

He barely had time to swipe ineffectually at his face with his handkerchief before Sydney was hauling him back out the door, MacLeod coming along behind them. He was too distracted by trying to keep his stomach out of his throat to wonder at how slowly MacLeod was following.

 

"Madre de Dios," Herna'n Acevido grumbled. "Does nothing ever come easily? One score, one simple score. First Francisco is stupid, now I must fight. Is nothing ever easy?"

He drew his sword from his light brown overcoat and followed the Quickening that was causing his skin to tingle. He had no objection to the Game; on the contrary, he was a skilled fighter and enjoyed taking heads. But he hadn't come tonight to fight. He'd come to plug a leak and pack some very hot jewels under a load of ancient Mayan pottery pieces. Smuggling was so much easier under an official seal.

Near the front of the building he saw three figures. Two were moving fast. One wasn't. He grinned. He knew which one was his. "Eduardo! Humberto! Jesu's! Pablo!" he called out to his men. They would take care of the mortals. The immortal who had screwed up his evening's work? That one was Acevido's.

His prey circled back as his men surrounded the mortals. The man was stocky, not fat, but strong. The other immortal nodded toward the back of the offices, where the trash the dirt-diggers had brought out of the ruins was collected. Acevido had been with the Conquistador army when the Aztecs fell. The Maya held no wonder for him, and his only use for artifacts was to sell them.

He nodded at the other immortal's invitation and glanced over his shoulder. He saw the mortal man go down under Pablo's fists, as the mortal woman began kicking and punching her way through the rest of his men. Ah, well, if she did beat them, he'd simply kill her when he was finished taking the Quickening. The night was shot for work, anyway, he might as well have some fun.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the stranger pronounced, pulling a long slender sword from his coat. Acevido nodded. A katana. He might call himself a Scotsman, but he fought with a Japanese weapon. This would indeed be fun.

"I am Herna'n Acevido. You are in my land now. There can be only one. It won't be you." Bare courtesies over, he swung into the fight, confidence in his stroke.

Several minutes into what had turned into the fight of his life, he began to believe that his confidence was misplaced.

He was tiring, rolling and jumping and flinging himself out of the way of the devil's sword. MacLeod seemed to be everywhere, flowing like water around him, always an inch out of his reach. It was damned frustrating, and worse, was becoming deadly.

Determined to put a quick end to it while he still could, Acevido feinted to the left and ducked low to the right, bringing his sword up in a highly illegal and very effective move to gut his opponent.

Except his opponent wasn't where he was supposed to be.

He didn't actually feel the slide of the blade. It was too sharp, and too fast, for that. His eyes lived for a split second after his torso was sliced in two and his head was taken from his body, long enough to see the first bare mist of his Quickening rising past his face and report the unthinkable to his brain, barely long enough for a final thought.

Nothing was ever easy.

Then a shrieking drew his consciousness outward, and his essence rode the wind building around his corpse. His memories, his wants and needs, his anger and his fatalism, the impressions of all he was, swirled into lightning and struck home, deep into the one who had killed him.

 

Sydney didn't notice MacLeod leave, being too busy at that point beating off three behemoths who fell on her like animated brick walls. Somewhere in the background she heard Nigel squeal as another one landed on him, and she growled aloud as she swung into the fight.

One lout grabbed her by the upper arms, making a nice platform for her to kick up with both feet and catch the second one under the chin, sending him reeling. The back-swing from that kick took her captor directly in the kneecaps, and he screamed like a girl and let go of her arms. She swung around with her right arm and caught him in the nose with her elbow as he was coming down. The resulting gout of blood and gurgling cry he gave as he fell over was heartening. The fact that he didn't get up again was even moreso.

A third giant got her in a headlock, and she went with the grip, bringing her legs up around him and bearing them both down to the ground. She twisted as they fell and ended up on top of him, with both hands free. She quickly brought them down, as hard as she could, boxing his ears soundly and taking both hearing and balance away from him. He flinched away like a kicked puppy and she scrambled to retain her footing as he curled up in a whimpering ball.

Nigel was flailing blindly in the grip of another overgrown thug, but she didn't have time for more than a quick kick to the forehead of the creep before the one she'd kicked originally was back in the fight. Several blows with fists, chops with hands and roundabout kicks _finally_ put that one down. By this time, the one holding on to Nigel had recovered from the kick she'd given him and was trying to pin Nigel down to punch him into oblivion. Nigel, smart boy that he was, was wriggling like a fish in a net avoiding the ham-like fists.

Sydney grappled with one arm as Nigel bucked up under the attacker, managing to knee him in the balls with one well placed wriggle. The man bellowed, and Sydney used the arm she was holding as a lever, pulling him back and out of position. Nigel squirmed out from under him and hit him as hard as he could.

To the surprise of all, the blow actually put the giant's lights out. It also resulted in Nigel hopping around shaking his entire arm and yelping, "Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!" but since by then no one was trying to kill them, that was okay.

She was reaching out to check his hand for broken bones when all hell broke loose. Lightning arched in the weirdest, most localized and fiercest dry storm she'd ever seen. She grabbed Nigel and dragged him with her into one of the offices, not the one with Frank's brains sprayed all over the computer. They put their heads down and hid behind a large crate labeled SHERDS.

After several minutes of waiting to be fried and feeling bruises come out all over her body, she heard Nigel say, pathetically, "Would you happen to have any chewing gum? My mouth tastes foul."

Syd patted him sympathetically, tried very hard not to think of Frank, and handed him a pack of Doublemint.

He ate every piece.

By the time he was finished, so was the lightning. Never one to allow gangs of attackers, missing clients or freak acts of nature stand in the way of a relic hunt, Sydney took off in the general direction of the back of the offices, hauling Nigel behind her. In her experience, thieves with major hauls usually needed camouflage to get their goods from one place to another. Frank had to have been murdered for a reason; a strong hunch led her to believe the Celtic jewelry, MacLeod's brooch among them, were somewhere in the complex.

The third door they opened led them to the shipping room, where artifacts were packed in crates, after being measured and written up. From there they'd either go to a lab for further analysis or on to a museum to be archived and displayed. The large room was a mess, with shattered lights, splintered furniture, broken windows and scorch marks decorating the walls.

Sydney dismissed the odd appearance of the room for later consideration, focusing on a crate that lay abandoned half-packed on a long table. She moved aside the fragile pot atop the packing material, setting it carefully on the table, and dug into the straw. Nigel, looking much healthier than he had before munching through her entire stash of chewing gum, moved to the other side of the crate and dug in as well.

"D'you really think he hid it in here, Sydney? It's a bit of a long shot, don't you think?" He sounded skeptical, but then, he always did.

Her fingers closed around the bulbous end of something hard, semi-circular, and braided. She pulled, and a worked-gold arm band came free in her hand. She blew the straw dust off it, and he blinked at her.

"Or not," he conceded.

She grinned at him, and they explored further, unpacking the rest of the jewelry from the crate. Near the bottom, Nigel pulled out a ring brooch with a cairngorm set in the center of it.

A hand reached over his shoulder and plucked it from his grip. Sydney looked past Nigel, eyes widening as she took in MacLeod's appearance. His coat was dusty, his shirt was ripped, and blood was splashed along the tears at his chest and stomach. He looked a little spacey, staring at the brooch as if he was hypnotized by it.

"Are you alright?" Nigel asked. Syd nodded.

"You don't look so good," she added.

He didn't appear to hear either of them. "Father," he whispered, staring at the brooch lying in his palm.

Syd waved, catching Nigel's attention. "C'mon, Nigel, let's get the rest of the Stokes collection unpacked before anybody comes checking on us. Or that weird thunder storm. Between it and the fight, we weren't exactly quiet."

At her words, MacLeod seemed to come back to himself. "Good point," he said, and nudged Nigel over to join them in sorting through the straw. Sydney watched them both.

Nigel didn't move much. MacLeod was shoulder to shoulder with him, and neither man seemed to mind.

She grinned, and turned back to the hunt. They'd nearly emptied the crate, and were pawing through the loose straw, when they heard the approach of sirens. MacLeod reacted like a seasoned criminal, jumping back, sweeping the jewelry into a handy box, shoving it into Nigel's arms then hustling toward the door, Nigel's shoulder in a firm hold.

Nigel leaned into the grip.

Syd came around the table and MacLeod caught hold of her hand, drawing her up even with them. A tingle went through her at his touch, and she shivered. It felt vaguely familiar. They were back in the Jeep and halfway back to town before she figured out why.

The last time she'd felt a shock like that, Amanda Covington was pinning her to a bed and going to town between her thighs. She smirked into the darkness. Maybe it was time to look up her old adversary. After all, with Frank gone, she needed a contact on the shady side of the fence.

Besides, she'd missed that spark.

 

By the time they got back to the hotel, dawn had broken. MacLeod's head was swimming from a combination of fatigue and Quickening hangover. He wanted nothing more than to fall into bed for a good three day nap, but knew this would be the only chance he'd have to gain possession of the brooch.

After all, _he_ knew it was his father's. He didn't have a hope in hell of proving it. And he certainly would never be able to win a provenance battle with the Stokes museum.

So he'd do what he had to do in order to honor his Clan; lie, steal, and cheat. The thought didn't comfort him.

An hour later, standing next to the bed in Nigel Bailey's room, staring down at the sleeping face that reminded him so strongly of Jamie, he fingered the brooch now in his pocket and said a silent goodbye to a dream. Nigel was a good man, and MacLeod liked him. But he wasn't his ancestor; Jamie was dead, and MacLeod had a choice now. Either take the brooch while he had the chance, and never see Nigel again, or allow Sydney to return the brooch with the rest of the jewels, and see if the potential he sensed in Nigel might someday match the fire he'd had with Jamie.

There really was no contest. He sighed again, still as silent as the shadows, and turned to leave.

"Don't go."

The words, spoken from the depths of the bed linens, froze him where he stood.

"I thought you were asleep."

The sheets rustled, and Nigel squirmed up against the pillows. The sound was so provocative MacLeod had to turn back to see if he looked as good as he sounded.

He did.

The moonlight limned his chest and arms, turning him into a creature of quicksilver, stuff of dreams. His face was in shadow, but MacLeod moved closer, and caught the gleam of bright eyes in the darkness.

"You came for the brooch."

MacLeod nodded, not sure what to say.

"Were you going to say good-bye?" No remonstration in the hushed voice, just resigned sadness. As if too many people had left, and too few had cared enough to say good-bye before they did.

"Ye're too young to sound so worn," he was moved to protest.

"I never get far enough to _get_ worn," Nigel retorted, a hint of humor in his voice. The light tone disappeared with the next question. "Is it really a family heirloom? Can you not prove it?"

"Yes," MacLeod said, moving closer to the bed, "and yes. It was my father's. But I have no papers to prove my claim. I'll not let it go back to the museum. 'Tis not where it belongs."

"Where does it belong, then?" Nigel asked softly.

MacLeod settled himself on the edge of the mattress, close enough to make out the expression on the lad's face, but not near enough to be tempted into laying hands on him. If they touched, he'd not get away that night. Forcing his mind back to the conversation, he replied, "In his grave, with his body." His voice shook. "Too much has been taken from him. This ... this shall no' be."

Nigel leaned forward, staring up into his face. "Then take it. I'll take care of explaining it to Sydney."

He leaned toward that earnest face, fingers rising to trace along one rounded cheek. Nigel's eyes widened, and his lips parted. Memory painted another face over his, and MacLeod's hand stilled against his skin.

One to honor, one to mourn.

Twisting away from temptation, turning away from the memory as well as the man, he reached into his duffel beside the bed and drew out another weapon, one he'd not used in centuries. He turned back to Nigel and placed the cloth-wrapped object in his hands.

"Here," he offered. "To replace the brooch, so the collection doesna suffer, and my father's honor can be restored as well." Nigel looked down at the bundle, then back up at MacLeod. "Go on," he urged. "Open it." That I might see that face, and that weapon, while life remains behind those eyes, he silently begged.

Nigel carefully unwrapped the heavy packet, and a dirk gleamed up at him from within the folds of cloth. The blade looked to have been made from a cut-down sword, about fourteen inches long and pierced with roundels. The handle was intricately carved wood. It was very well-cared for. Nigel lifted it to the light.

MacLeod caught his breath. That weapon hadn't been used in over two hundred and fifty years; not since he'd killed Jamie with it. To see it, in Nigel's hand, alight with interest and alive with curiosity, went a long way to stanching the blood he hadn't realized was still seeping from that wound so long ago given his heart.

"Are you sure?" Nigel asked. He stared intently from the blade to MacLeod's face.

"Aye," MacLeod answered. "Ta'e it awa' and be done wi' it." He stopped to clear his throat, enunciating clearly when he started again. "Have you ever been to the King's Head, on the outskirts of Cambridge?"

At the abrupt change of subject, Nigel dropped the dirk back into its nest of cloth and stared at MacLeod. "I did go to Cambridge, but I've never been to that particular pub. Why?"

MacLeod smiled, forcing himself to see past the memory and into the future. "I'd like to take you there someday."

"Take me?" Nigel asked, his voice dropping.

MacLeod leaned near, cupping that sharp chin in his hand and kissing the lad, briefly but thoroughly. When he was finished, his mouth was tingling, and Nigel was looking at him as if he'd lost the capacity for speech along with thought.

"Take ye," he promised.

Nigel was still staring after him as he closed the door behind him and walked away.

 

He knew the precise moment when Sydney discovered that he'd substituted the dirk for the brooch. Nigel heard her yell his name through two closed doors. Hunching his shoulders down much like a turtle attempting to avoid rain, he concentrated fiercely on his book.

Until she pulled it out of his hands.

He affected great surprise at her action. "Sydney!" he exclaimed. "Did you need me? I'm sorry, I was reading, I didn't realize you wanted me -- "

"So that's why he disappeared in the middle of the night! You let him take the brooch?" she demanded. Oddly enough, she didn't appear particularly surprised.

"I had a choice?" he asked defensively. The way she was looking at him made him feel rather naked. He pushed his glasses further up his nose and tried to look affronted.

"There are always choices," she told him.

He nodded. "I know." He left it at that. She stared at him for a long moment, then gave him a tiny smile and a questioning look.

"Do you know what you're doing?" she asked him, after a silence that seemed to drag on for eons. He shrugged, uncomfortable, but helpless to do anything about it.

"No," he said promptly, "but that won't stop me." He hadn't realized he'd made the decision until he said it aloud. He didn't know when Duncan MacLeod would come back, but he had a strong feeling he would. And when he did, Nigel wasn't going to be the least backward about pressing his affections.

"Never did me, either," she admitted, startling a laugh out of him. "You'll be okay."

As she went back to her office, dirk in hand, to finish packing the Stokes collection to send back to the museum, he picked up his book and slumped back in his chair. He had a sneaking suspicion she was right.

She usually was.

_FIN_

Notes : this story and my recent Methos story [The Wolf](glacis/castleskeep.net/Wolf.htm) were inspired by a visit to the Highlands this summer.

At James Thin Booksellers and in a book store now residing in the building that used to be the Gaelic Church I found new and used books that were of great help: Richard Oram's Scottish Prehistory (Birlinn, 1997, ISBN 1-874744-69-6); Duncan Jones' Wee Guide to the Picts (Pocket Scottish History Series, Goblinshead Press, 1998, ISBN 1-899874-12-7); Terence Wise's European Edged Weapons (Almark Publications, 1974, out of print); and Dorling Kindersley's excellent Eyewitness Travel Guide to Scotland (DK, 1999, ISBN 0-7513-1155-3). I highly recommend the Eyewitness guides for fanfic writers, because of the good descriptions, excellent maps, photos of everything from landscape to buildings to musical instruments, and handy descriptions. They're a great way to describe places you've not yet seen, or to bring to vivid life memories of places you have been.

In addition, my friends (who took me on a diet Coke pub crawl outside Cambridge that led to the King's Head in this story), the wonderful librarians at the Inverness Public Library, the friendly tour guides from Puffin Express who shared their experience and their books with me, and the various helpful people at Inverness Museum, James Pringle Weavers, Lindsay the Targemaker and the Scottish National Trust properties including the museum and display at Culloden Moor, on the Orkney Islands and at Clava Cairns are responsible for a lot of the detail in these stories. The beauty of Scotland isn't just in the incredible landscape -- it's in the incredible people.

Glacis, 8/22/2000

 


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